


No Going Back

by shiverfawkes



Series: Trans!John Watson [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Coming Out, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Running Away, Trans Character, Trans John Watson, Trans Male Character, johnlock if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-29 04:34:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19822624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiverfawkes/pseuds/shiverfawkes
Summary: “Abby, I need to talk to you a moment.” His voice came, and her heart dropped, hearing him walking back down the stairs.





	No Going Back

**Author's Note:**

> this isnt that great yikes, dunno if I'll continue but whatever

Abigail Watson had just gotten home from school, she tore off her uniform, replacing the skirt with the most masculine pair of trousers she owned and a baggy t-shirt. She secured the combat trousers she’d nicked off her best mate with a belt she stole from her sister before she left and looked herself in the mirror.

She really needed to cut all her hair off before she went mad.

A knock on her door came and she dropped her hand that held her dirty blonde her behind her head, out of sight and fixed it accordingly. It fell to her chest, extenuating the curve and she squeezed her eyes shut, feeling sick. “Abby, I need to talk to you a moment.” His voice came, and her heart dropped, hearing him walking back down the stairs.

She sighed, tying her hair up, grimacing at the bow on the hair tie she used, before following him down. He was sitting at the kitchen table, a mug handle gripped tightly in his fingers “Yeah dad?”

“Sit down, please.” He asked, he didn’t look at her, and she felt a sickness churning in her stomach,

“What’s wrong, dad? Is it Nana?” She asked, taking a seat before him and leaning forward, concern written in her face, her bright blue eyes staring at him.

“No, no, I just, there’s no easy way to talk about it. But…” He sighed, rubbing his hand over his face, leaving the curve of his forefinger and thumb resting on his upper lip, smoothing down his caterpillar of a moustache. “Look, people, my mates, have been telling me they keep seeing you, around, in these tailor shops, looking at suits and ties, and even in a barbershop. What are you doing?”

She shook her head, feeling nervousness rise, her heart rate began to quicken. She forced a smile and a fake laugh. “I was looking for Father’s Day gifts.” She raised her hands, leaning back, trying to come across as convincing.

“Father’s Day was three months ago. What’s going on Abigail, do _not_ lie to me on this.” His voice grew sterner and his icy blue eyes stared straight through her. “Are you cross-dressing?”

“What?”

“Are you a cross-dresser, pretending to be a man? Creating a new personality for yourself, Abby please, talk to me, I can get you help.” His tone shifted to kindness, but the whisper tones in his voice made her skin crawl.

“No.”

“Then why else would you be buying a suit?” He slammed his hands on the table, standing up, and shouting now, Abby knew his calm demeanour was all too good to be true, he hadn't been genuinely nice for years.

“Because I have a thing about work! And I’d rather wear a suit than a stupid fucking dress any day!”

“Are you mad!? What will people think if they see you in a suit? What will they think of me?”

“Who the fuck cares? Its _my_ life.”

“And you’re _my_ daughter!”

She paused, licking her lips, trying to think of what she wanted to say and _how._ “What- What if I'm not…”

“What are you saying? I’ve seen you; I’ve changed you, I bathed you, I _know_ who _you_ are.”

“Dad for once in your life _listen_ to me! Please, just shut up and listen to me…” She took a breath, trying to calm herself down. “What if I’m not. What if I have a girl’s body, but I’m a boy stuck in it, like my _brain_ is a boy and the rest of me isn’t.” He explained, trying to explain his thoughts and put to words this distress he’d been feeling for years, ever since he began to change in ways he didn’t like.

“I have two daughters, one’s a dyke, but you, you are normal, Abigail, you are a _normal girl_. I know since your mum died things have been hard, but this is not how you cope with it. Let me help you.”

“You want to help me? Then listen to me dad, please listen. I want short hair, I want a suit that fits, and I want to change my name.” He took another breath, he was not going to cry, not now. “Don’t you dare bring mum into this. I’ve been thinking about this since way before she left, and my only obstacle was you.”

“Look Abby-“

The name stung like a slap to the face. “Save it, Dad. I’m going out.” She replied, heading for the door, not even grabbing a coat.

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

That was a lie. He did know.

He showed up at the front gates of the Holmes residence, getting off his bike to push the buzzer. “It’s Abby Watson, I’m here to see Sherlock.”

“Always aiming to please, aren’t we John.” The slick, smooth baritone of his best friend came slightly garbled through the speaker.

John rolled his eyes, he wasn’t in the mood for Sherlock to be condescending on purpose. “Let me in, I need to talk to you.”

A gentle laugh came. “Alright, alright.”

The gates opened, and John’s annoyance seemed to fade, shaking his head and smiling gently to himself, he pushed his bike up the driveway, leaving it leaning against the house by one of the family cars. The door swung open with a smile and a hello from their housekeeper Martha Hudson.

He took his dirty battered shoes off, they were a size too big for him, and padded down the varnished wooden floors to Sherlock’s room, knocking the door, he let his shoulders slump as the real gravity of the situation hit him.

He never called over unless something bad had happened, or sherlock asked. Often it was the former, but usually it was just to stay for a little while until his dad cooled off from whatever anger happened to be in his grasp.

There was no going back _now_.

Sherlock was the only person he could be himself with. Mainly because if he wasn’t, Sherlock would know.

He knocked, and the door swung open revealing the tall, beautifully thin teenager with a mess of curly hair on top. “He found out?” One of his eyebrows quirked up, and he pushed the rolled-up sleeve of his bright white shirt back above his elbow.

“Accused.” John replied, walking past Sherlock and practically throwing himself into Sherlock’s spinning chair by his desk, stopping the rotation short with his feet.

“And you cracked.”

John placed his head in his hands. “I don’t know what I'm going to do…” He moaned as a second wave of reality crashed over him, drowning him in anxious thoughts and fears. 

He had nowhere to go.

He couldn’t go to Harry, his only other family was his senile nana in a nursing home and his entire life depended on getting this job tomorrow.

He was screwed.

“Well, you came here for a reason, we’ve got rooms, stay with us.” Sherlock replied simply, standing with his weight on one foot and his arms folded.

As usual, John’s mind went straight for the barriers. “And your parents?”

“They’re never here anyway, I doubt they’ll care.”

“What about Mycroft?” He asked again.

“Difficult to predict, but it shouldn’t matter, he’s only home at the weekends.”

“I couldn’t.” He bit his lip, he couldn’t, could he?

“You can and you’re going to.”

It was tempting, it really was but Sherlock had done everything for him, and he couldn’t bear to take more from him like this. He could suffer with his Dad, rather than be a burden. “Sherlock, I-“

“Shut up or say thank you.”

John licked his lips and gave him a smile. “Thank you.”

He knew there was always a reason for him to come here when he had problems. Sherlock was practically the kind of puzzles, and hell if John’s life wasn’t the biggest of all.

Sherlock gave John a half-smile-half-smirk that made him roll his eyes and hide his blush by running a hand over his face. “Alright, I haven’t eaten for a few days and neither have you, so c’mon.” He speaks as if the previous conversation hadn't even happed, walking out of his room quickly and down the hall.

“What?” John scrambled to get up and follow him.

The taller by looked at him like he was dumber than a box of rocks “We’re going to McDonalds, here, take a coat.” He chucked a black combat jacket at him, before pulling on his ow trench coat.

John caught it quickly and pulled it on. “A rich kid like you? In McDonalds?”

“I’m _allowed_.”

John laughed, rolling his eyes. “Yeah of course.”

“Driver!”

They were sitting across from one another, eating in relative silence. The ambience of the busy restaurant seemed to be cancelled out by their solemn ambience.

“So, are you going with John then? Now it’s an official thing, you might as well make some decisions.” He gestured with his drink in his hand, taking a sip once he was done. 

John looked up. “I think so. I mean, you’ve been calling me John for how long?”

“Half a year.”

“I feel like it’s me now.”

Sherlock nodded. “You never really told me why you picked it, my only real thought as to why is that it isn’t extravagant, and you’d prefer it like that, generally preferring to keep attention away from yourself. Though truthfully I can’t help but think there’s more to it than that, a role model or a character I’m missing.”

John still found it breath-taking every time he did something like that, speaking faster than light, cold and calculated. Like he could see right through him, and in many ways, John knew he could. 

“Yeah, my Uncle Johnny was my favourite, I always wanted to be like him. He was always so nice, we would play rugby in the garden.” He smiled gently, letting a tinge of sadness seep into his tone as he clenched hold of the memories, gone fuzzy with time.

Sherlock quirked his brow in question. “Was?”

“The same cancer my mum had.”

“John, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, I’m over it, I’m…” He bit his lip, taking in a sharp breath, squeezing his eyes shut. He could feel his head swimming, before opening his eyes, allowing deep blue to meet bright green. “I’m fine.”

Sherlock smirked, the corners of his mouth quirking up in a way that seemed unique to only him, strangely pretty simply because it was so bizarre. “Clearly.”

“Oi!”

“You ready to leave?”

“Might as well, I’ve got an interview tomorrow.”

They got back and John was standing in the Holmes bathroom, Sherlock had shut off, disappearing into his mind palace. John got bored of waiting for him to come back, so he decided to explore the house.

Everything was so sophisticated, cleaned to a t. Mrs Hudson gave him a smile and a nod, but she didn’t talk to him, and he didn’t mind it.

The bathroom was just as fancy as the rest of the house, bigger than any bathroom he’d seen in his life. There was an ornate mirror, large and centred at the sink.

He was staring in the mirror. He _hated_ mirrors.

Every little flaw displayed in front of him, even the ones that he alone knew about, but they were there, and he hated them. He couldn’t pretend anymore when he was staring right back at himself. Was this what it was like to be Sherlock? Knowing every detail about a person just by the way they look.

John hadn't slept properly in months, as was evident by the bags under his eyes, he spent a lot of time outside, shown by his somewhat of a tan and mass of freckles on his cheeks and arms. John wasn’t a _real boy_ , as shown by everything else.

Sherlock had never said that to him but he knew that’s what he must be thinking. Either that or he thought John was crazy, most people did.

His hair was in one hand, tied in a ponytail behind him. He had the scissors behind his head, his hair between the blades at the nape of his neck where the hair-tie was placed tightly.

Everything until this moment now felt like it never happened, felt like he’d been floating around aimlessly, even the hunt for the scissors felt like a dream.

But now he was standing here, staring at himself, breathing shallow breaths, life had never felt clearer.

He needed to do this.

He _had_ to.

He couldn’t bare it any longer.

Who was here to stop him? Who was here to care?

He shut his eyes, took a breath, and tensed his hands, hearing the slice of the metal through seventeen years of dirty blonde strands. As the locks of muted gold fell to the ground, tears fell down his cheeks.

There was no going back now.

Then the door opened, and he snapped into the present and stumbled, dropping the scissors, and rushing to wipe the tears off his face.

There at the door was Mycroft Holmes. His icy blue eyes piercing a cold stare into John.

“Sorry to interrupt. John Watson, isn’t it?” He asked, placing his arms behind his back, his posture was proper, the same as Sherlock’s. Everything about him appeared high class, and John felt intimidated, but tried not to show it.

He nodded, forcing his shoulders down, and standing properly again. “Y-Yeah.”

“Take the elastic out.” He ordered, and John raised his eyebrow, unsure of what was going on, what the elder Holmes was going to do to him.

“What?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and gave him a look as if he was as dumb as a box of rocks. “The elastic in your hair, take it out.”

Nervously, John pulled it out and turned around, looking in the mirror again. It was choppy, it fell just below his ears, and he could feel his heart sink. He still looked like Abby. Squeezing his eyes shut, he could hear Mycroft sigh and tut.

He reached again for the scissors, he needed to fix this, he couldn’t keep living with this image of himself.

Mycroft grabbed his wrist as he could pick them up and he dropped them again in shock.

Okay so both Holmes were fast in reflexes as well.

This house was just full of surprises.

“Alright come with me.” His tone was cold, he let go and beckoned with two fingers before walking swiftly out the bathroom door, at least this Holmes gave him a warning and didn’t expect him to keep up. He followed, speed-walking slightly to keep up, considering they were all so damn tall.

John felt nervousness building up inside his chest, he could practically hear his heart pounding in his head.

What on earth was going on?

“Mrs Hudson!” He called out to the corridor. “Bring a broom to the bathroom, will you!?”

John’s eyes widened and he panicked, feeling guilty. “I-I could clean it up, you don’t have to-“

“It’s her job, John.” Again, with the look that told him he was an idiot, head-tilt and everything.

Mycroft picked up his phone, clearly top of the line and searched for a number in his contacts list. John didn’t have a phone, so Sherlock usually just called the landline of his house. “You have an interview tomorrow, correct?”

“Yeah, why-“

“What time?”

John furrowed his eyebrows, staring at Mycroft as he looked for the number, he couldn’t understand for the life of him what was happening. “Four o’clock, how do y-“

Mycroft raised a hand and immediately John was silent. “Hello yes, this is Mycroft Holmes from the Holmes account- Yes- I need a haircut, well not me personally- What’s your earliest booking?... Yes that’s perfect, thank you.” He ended the call and before John could even speak he’d selected another contact and had the phone to his ear once more.

“Yes hello, this is Mycroft Holmes- My apologies for the late notice but I need a suit fitted as soon as possible- no not for me-“ He gave a chuckle which was the most emotion he’d seen from the elder Holmes. “Height wise I’d say five-foot-six.” He said looking John up and down, and he resisted the urge to retract into himself.

“Five-seven.” John corrected quietly, rubbing his arm as a gentle draft swept through the kitchen, his height was a sensitive subject for him.

“Sorry, five-foot-seven- Yes- Yes thank you, see you then.”

“What was that? A-And _why_ was that?”

“You are staying here for the foreseeable future, am I wrong?” John nodded, slightly embarrassed. “Well then you are representing my household, and I will not permit you to stand for my name whilst you look like… _That_.” He offered a look of contained disgust at John’s ragged appearance.

“Charming.” John rolled his eyes but he couldn’t help the grin and the gentle glow of his cheeks in all his excitement.

“Aren’t I just?” Mycroft replied, his eyes glinting with humour. “Alright you may get to bed, you have a big day tomorrow.” John nodded walking to the door of the kitchen, but he stopped, resting his hand on the frame, tears were clogging his throat and pained his every breath.

“Thank-you, Mycroft.”

“Go to bed.”

He walked to the room that Sherlock told him he could use, and opened the door to see Sherlock on the bed, and a t-shirt and shorts laying on the sheets

He glanced up at the shorter boy. “Oh, it’s not as bad as I expected.”

“Of course you knew.” John laughed, rolling his eyes.

“Yes, did Mycroft make you an appointment?”

“Yeah, did you tell him about my interview?”

“Obviously, why else would he help you, lest you embarrass yourself?”

“He booked me what sounded like a tailoring appointment.”

“That was all him, I just wanted your hair to look properly masculine, and not, for lack of a better phrase, a choppy birds-nest of a bob-cut.” He smirked, reaching his hand to the back off Johns hair, running his fingers gently through it.

John smiled, looking up at him and as nice as it felt trying not to cringe at his comment. “Oddly specific.”

“As am I. Hudson found you some clothes to wear as pyjamas, I have things to work on, but you should rest, considering the events to take place tomorrow.” He replied, as he turned to the door frame.

“Hey Sherlock?” John asked, and Sherlock stopped still in the frame.

“You’re welcome, John.”

John smiled as he closed the door and flopped back onto the freshly made bed. Had he died? And gone to heaven?

This couldn’t be real.

He wasn’t worried.

He wasn’t worried.

He. Wasn’t. _Worried_.

John Watson hadn't felt free in years. Since him mum left, life had been one big cluster-fuck. Harry came out, his Dad became a drunk, and he, well, he became terrified.

Every little mistake was something to be scrutinised, and he was so scared that it would come to this.

Now it had.

He could stop worrying. 


End file.
